


Poetry for the Homesick

by HSavinien



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Gen, Homesickness, Loss, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29961618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: Yusuf's so proud of his great-niece, but it makes him miss his family.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Poetry for the Homesick

_My sister’s children do her honor. They increase in wisdom like olives on her trees and my heart calls all to hear their deeds._

Yusuf stares at the words while his ink dries, then stores the book in his pack. It is no great verse, and trite besides, but he has been turning metaphors over in his head all day and come up with nothing better, which leaves him itchy and unsatisfied.

Yusuf puffs up and struts like a peacock whenever he hears of some new success of his family through gossip among the merchant stalls, but there is still a bitter tang of hurt to learn of it secondhand. His youngest sister’s granddaughter (named Sumnah after his own beloved mother) has earned an ijazah in the recitation of poetry at only thirteen years of age, and he is so proud he could burst with it. But he has nobody to tell except Niccolò, who does not quite understand, though he offers Yusuf joy of the news. (There is a school of high learning in Bologna now, but it was only built in their lifetimes; there is none of the weight of tradition in it.)

This hurts particularly, peculiarly, in a way that news of weddings, and deaths, and other accomplishments has not for years. He rubs his aching chest as he mounts up and nearly misses his seat, but the horse is well-mannered and steady and does not mind his distraction. They are caravan guards this month, traveling a route well-trod. Yusuf pays little attention. Niccolò will keep watch.

Itimad, youngest of his father’s children and quieter by far than Yusuf, was his most beloved sibling. She had followed him like a persistent shadow from the ages of three to seven whenever he was at home, hanging upon his robe until it twisted and half-strangled him, blinking up at him until he relented and told her a poem or sketched her a curling drawing of a bird or a beetle. It never took long for Yusuf to give in to Itimad, and so he traded for new books of poetry to memorize for her and made sure to keep scraps of paper and charcoal on his person. Itimad feasted on art even more than Yusuf did, listening to every poem with the devouring intensity of a starving girl presented with a banquet and clutching each drawing to her chest in delight, rushing to hide it away with her most beloved pull-along horse toy with the fraying string. 

So, she had fostered her love of poetry in her granddaughter. Yusuf wonders if Itimad arranged for a teacher for Sumnah, or if her son-in-law or daughter had seen the girl’s aptitude. He wonders if Sumnah looks like her grandmother at all, or her namesake.

Niccolò, quiet, allows Yusuf his brooding. He nudges his horse up beside Yusuf’s when the caravan takes a rest, passing over a tiny wrapped parcel. Yusuf unwraps it and eats the treat without thought, small bites to make it last. Rosewater blooms on his tongue, but fades into salt again. He drinks from his water-jar, trying to clear his mouth of the bitterness of loss.

Yusuf wonders what happened to Itimad’s little toy horse. He pulls out his book to write again.

_Dust, dust, and the weight of years. My heart aches for that which is left behind. Who can count the losses that match the stars?_


End file.
